


These violent delights, (have violent ends).

by Faustkomskaikru



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A LOT of angst and feelings, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Clexa, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Healing, but we love it right, it ends well, the clexa healing each others journey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:57:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6432730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faustkomskaikru/pseuds/Faustkomskaikru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And she doesn't say anything. She just raises her fourth drink, and bring it towards you. When they touch again, the noise of the glass covers the one of your heart breaking. Your heart breaks, for two broken people, two broken strangers, finding themselves so lost, that the sound of their misery brought them together.</p><p>Or </p><p>Clarke and Lexa are two broken souls who find the courage to open up for the first time. Nothing's ever that simple, is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, the feelings are real guys. I must warn you that there are character death, and mentions of it. Nothing graphic. Any mistakes are my own, friendly reminder that english is not my native language and it's 6:30 AM, I'm exhausted. I'll correct everything later.  
> Also, thousand times thank you for all your amazing comments, they mean the world! Keep em coming, they give me life, even if I don't respond! I love you all.

You don't completely know what you're doing here. It's not that this bar is beneath you. It's not. But you feel out of place, inadequate. You're not sure it has something to do with the bar, though. Maybe it's more that you don't know why you're here, in general. In life. What it is you're doing with yourself. So, maybe for one night, you just don't want to go to a fancy bar. You don't want to pick up yet another faceless girl. Another shallow body to fill your shallow heart.

It's not that late. In fact, any other night you'd have say it was early. That you weren't nearly drunk enough. You'd have waited, ordered another wishkey. Tonight you don't. You just stare at the one in your hand. Will you drink it ? Will you not ? Who knows.

You're so lost in your thoughts, nothing can distract you. The noise of the semi-crowded bar sounds far. Muffled. The sight of the ice melting in the amber liquid is the only thing keeping you focused on the scenery. The rest of you is elsewhere. You're in a hundred places at once.

You're back in high school corridors, young and alive, in love. You're back to summer nights shared in secret under starry skies and camping tents. You're back in crowds cheering, warm hugs, congratulations and new beginnings. You're back to a life that you're missing. You're back into innocence and promises.

It's bittersweet, painful and soothing. You've accepted it. Maybe.

The faint sound of a chair rattling next to you is not enough to pull you from your musing. The husky voice that asks for tequila is smooth, and sounds defeated. You're slowly coming to. Pulled from another world of your own, pulled from perfection and past mistakes.

Your eyes stay on your drink, though. The only thing changing is your stance. You carry yourself better. You straighten your back. It's an impulse that you don't understand right away.

"Rough night, huh?"

You don't look up still. The voice alone is enough to send shivers down your spine, because you hear clearly, now. You consider not answering, but rudeness was never a quality of yours.

"I suppose you could say that."

"Welcome to the party."

And there's no malice. No judgement. No sarcasm. Only pain. You look up at her, a shot of tequila in her hand, and your chest tightens. Your throat closes. Sadness looks breathtaking on her. You wonder what happiness would look like etched on her features. Would she look even more beautiful? Would she be devastatingly stunning, would she shine as bright as those suns that once lit up your heart?

Her beauty is painful though, and you spend several minutes looking into her tired eyes, hurting beyond belief at this stranger, this lost stranger, asking for a million things with her eyes, things that you want to give her. Things that you crave to offer. The connection is immediate.

You raise your glass, and wait for her to cling hers against it. It's not celebratory. The sound isn't joyful. You wish it was. You wish you could absorb the ache in her voice. She downs her tequila and gestures for another.

"What brings you here? I've never seen you before."

"Do you come here often?"

"I suppose you could say that."

There's the bitterness. There's the admission that hurts.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault." After a beat, she adds. "Although, I wish it was."

"What do you mean?" You're confused, and somewhat offended. You don't know why.

"Well, if you were the reason I come to this bar so often, I assure you that it wouldn't be because I'm sad and bitter."

Her lips curl up, and the agony in your chest only intensifies. So that's how she looks when she smiles. You see the beginning of perfection, created in soft dimples and flirtatious look.

"I would hope so." You return the smile. You can't not. It's infectious.

"You didn't answer my question though." You pause. Another shot disappear inside of her, and the third one is being served. You still haven't touched your whiskey. What are you _really_ doing here?

"Honestly, I'm still wondering myself."

"Maybe I can provide you with an answer before this night is over."

"I'm sure you will." And when you smile, it's not overly flirtatious. It's not just lustful. It's sincere, and hopeful. Genuine. It feels foreign against your lips. Exotic. It tastes better than the sip of the whiskey you swallow. "What brings you here so often?"

It's careful, and maybe untactful. But, pleasantries where never a part of the picture here, and the comfort in your words is evident. There's a solidarity that comes with shared wounds that never heal.

"Hope, I guess."

"In a shot of tequila? What kind of hope is there in that?"

"The hope to forget."

Her sigh resonnates in your own.

"I guess it matches the one that's drowning in my whiskey."

"I don't see you drinking it though."

"Maybe I don't know what to hope for anymore."

And she doesn't say anything. She just raises her fourth drink, and bring it towards you. When they touch again, the noise of the glass covers the one of your heart breaking. Your heart breaks, for two broken people, two broken strangers, finding themselves so lost, that the sound of their misery brought them together.

The silence that follows is comfortable. You finish your glass and wonder if you should just go home. Call it a night. Maybe start living your life a different way. It's time, you tell yourself. Like everynight, it sounds unconvinced and uneffective. There is never a time to put an end to grief, mourning, and goodbyes. Sometimes you fear they'll last forever.

"You're not contemplating leaving me here alone, are you?"

"From what you've told me, it wouldn't be the first time you're here without me."

"It doesn't mean I don't want it to be the last." She doesn't look at you, somewhat ashamed, the everlasting truth of the hurt forever carved behind her eyes. "It's a nice change to the dull routine."

And it hits you. When were the last time you shared a conversation with a woman that didn't involved I-want-you's and Let's-go-back-to-mine's? At what point, the routine took over? When did you decide that it was okay to live in a cycle, repeating itself mindlessly? And when will you decide that it has to stop?

Now, you think. Now would be as good a time as any other.

"I guess I could keep you company a bit more."

Relieved eyes, bashful smile, gratitude. Hope. It is there. Real, and tangible. Probably not at the bottom of a shot of tequila.

"I'm Clarke." She extends her hand, and it's delicate and soft when you take it, shaking it for far too long than necessary. It conveys comfort and courage. It makes you tingle, and it hurts. It hurts in a good way, in a way you that thought gone forever.

"Lexa."

Your hand never leaves yours, and longing looks are exchanged. There is something utterly mystical, and endearing to this woman. This woman that is barely known, but feels familiar, and intimate. There are impulses beneath your skin that errupts in goosebumps all over you. Impulses you haven't felt in a long time. They tell you to be spontaneous. They tell you to break loose. You don't know how to do that anymore. How it feels.

You want to attempt it anyway. You want to be bold and brave.

"Come on, let's go."

She's looking at you weirdly.

"Did you.. Are you.. trying to pick me up?"

"No, God, no!"

"Hum. Should I be offended?"

"You're beautiful, any other night, I might as well have tried to take you back to mine. Tonight, I want to do something else. Do you trust me?"

"I barely know you."

"Well, you don't want me to leave you alone. Who's to say the answer is to stay here? Why can't you go with me?"

"Where?"

"Just trust me?"

She's hesitating, she's torn. She's tempted. And cautious. You want to believe that she's going to come. You tell her with your eyes. _Trust me_ , you try to say, _I haven't felt this way in a long time. You did that. Don't ask me how. Don't wonder why. Just go with it._

When she grabs her wallet from her back pocket, but you beat her to it. You throw a 50 on the counter. You have too many of that now. It's so insignificant to you, you despise it. Want to get rid of it. And cling to it at the same time. It's like a burden and a blessing mixed up.

When she gets up from the stool, you realize with a sting that your hands never let go of each other, crossed between your bodies, like a promise. Eventually, you let go, grab her jacket, help her put it on, in true gentlewoman fashion. You grab yours and take off, with her in tow.

To be completely honest, you don't know what you're doing. You need this night to be unlike the others. You need a wake up call. The blue in her eyes might as well be it. Maybe there is absolution for people like you. Maybe healing is an option. Maybe this feeling in your chest that is sparking will lit up an entire wildfire. It seems familiar yet foreign. It feels like an ancient memory you have dug up from the grave. The irony of this analogy is not lost on you.

"So, what do you want to do now?" You ask her once you're on the street, walking backward, looking at her.

"I thought I had to trust you? That you were taking me somewhere?"

"Now, I never said I was taking you somewhere." You smile, you want to pretend that the pain is not there anymore. "As for the trust part, well, I guess it involved getting you to follow me."

"So you have no idea where you want to go?"

"I really don't."

"Talk about some plans." She chuckles, it's light, and she shakes her head, unbelieving.

"The night is ours, you said it yourself. It's a nice change to the dull routine. Don't let it be a _dull change_ , don't make us go through the motion of yet another tedious night, where we try to drown our sorrows in alcohol."

She just looks at you and laugh, oh, you surely sound too hopeful. Naive, senseless.

"This is an opportunity. Let's not pass it up. Let's take it. To hell with it." You continue.

She laughs again, and there's something you can't describe behind her eyes. Reluctance. Turmoil.

"When was the last time you took a chance?" She asks.

"Five minutes ago, when I decided not to leave you." You stop and look at her, all serious face returning. "Will you take one too?"

She seems to ponder, she looks away, unfocused, and a hundred answers are written across her eyes. You can read them all, but ultimately, you can never understand them. You don't know her, and deep down, you wish you did. You want to unveil the secrets, dig for the treasures of her soul. There is just something about her, unfathomable, untangible, mysterious and attractive. It pulls you in. You want to know why, and you remember a time many years ago when you felt the same. You also remember that you never got the answer.

It happens sometimes, it just does. There are some people that, by a strike of luck, cross your path and you can just watch and follow, a slave to this absolute and unavoidable devotion. It's unnerving really. To be helpless to the way you feel. But the only fact that you _are_ in fact, feeling, is something entirely too freeing and relieving to ignore.

After a while, your heart beats a little bit faster, and fear has a gentle grip on your enthusiasm. You wait, patiently for her to make up her mind, and you know that something is troubling her, is making her doubt the next words that leave her mouth.

"I know just where to go." She finally says, and you hint the tiniest of smile, offer your arm, and say "Lead the way."

When you start walking, and there's just silence, you start to wonder if this was a mistake, if maybe you've been reading into things.

"Is it awkward? I feel like it is." She says, and you feel like it should be, but it's not.

"Only if we let it be." The night is not too cold, in fact, the warm days are coming, and today particularly, you feel grateful for the weather. "I guess it's safe to assume you're not going to tell me where we're going."

"Indeed, you're right to assume that."

"Well, then, entertain me in the meantime."

"Oh no, I'm not going to do all the work so, you entertain me. I picked the destination."

"I guess that's only fair." You think for a moment, walking slowly by her side, arms tangled. "Okay, let's play twenty questions."

"Are you serious?" She looks at you, as you wait to cross the street.

"Why not? Do you have a better idea?"

She shooks her head and sighs, and when it's safe for you to start walking again, she says "Fine, but you better start."

"Alright. What's on your mind?"

"Getting right into it, I see."

"I'm sorry, it's just, you intrigue me."

She blushes. It's a light shade of pink on her cheeks, and it's endearing. It soothes the ache inside your chest.

"Let's keep this question for later, okay?"

"Okay, something lighter then. What about.. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an artist. I dropped out of med school to pursue my dream."

"That sounds fantastic."

"I don't know about that." You know better than to press the issue, than to give in to the urge to know the reason behind the sharpness of her words. "What do you do?"

"That's easy if you just return all the questions, I'm doing all the hard work." You're playful though.

"I won't, I promise."

"Good." You continue walking, and your pace is slow, calm, lasting. Wherever you're going, you don't want to be there yet. You want to learn about her more. You turn at the corner, and just enjoy each step that you take together.

"I'm a lawyer."

"Fancy."

You just shrug. You couldn't care less about the money. "I love the challenge." and she doesn't answer. You search for the next question, forgetting slowly what it's like to be alone. Lonely. "Any siblings?"

"Nope." She goes to ask but catches herself. You laugh, and indulge her. "Alright, Anya, big sister, Aden, little brother. But you have to find a question of your own."

"Are you the only the only one of your siblings whose name doesn't begin with an A?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer, Lexa." She caught you, she knows it.

"No, my name does actually begins with an A, too."

"Pardon me, but I just said it, and if I recall, it began with an L." She's grinning madly, and you want to kiss it off her face. You don't.

"Yes, well, I answered your question, I don't have to tell you anything else on this subject."

"Aren't you going to tell me your real name?"

"I believe it's my turn to ask a question." And with a pointed look, you end the argument, melting at the pout that graces her lips. "What's you favorite memory? And I don't mean the happiest one, just, the one you cherish the most."

She goes awfully quiet, you go awfully worried. There's a few steps, a few seconds and maybe, probably minutes, where she doesn't talk. You appreciate them the best you can. The occasionnal sound of cars passing by, the air that is slowly getting colder, making you want to press her closer. You gratefully take the time to glance at her, admiring the perplex and contemplating look on her face. You watch her think, you watch her breathe, you watch her be. Examine every little detail, the way her hair fall loosely around her shoulder, not curly but not quite straightened, the bright blonde shinning with the light of the city. The crease between her brows.

You look at how she walks, the grace that dignify each steps she takes. The simple and extraordinary way her clothes live on her body. Nothing fancy, jeans, loose shirt, brown leather jacket, a pair of Vans. Simplicy draws patterns of beauty on her body, and you can just absorb the way the fabric moves around her, with pliance and ease.

You feel like a lightning has striken inside your soul. Storms awoke in your body, tempests of feelings raging inside of you. Golden hair are like a halo of light that will be your salvation. You'll follow it until it , let it never disappear. Let it glow in the darkest hours of your life. Let it shine on the shadows that took residence inside your heart. Let the soft glimmer, the intense raditation inhabit you for the remaining of your days. Let the strikening never end, ignite your body in flames of passion and redemption.

When she speaks again, her voice is soothing, and strong. You swallow the words, you drink them in, take them in like they're an oasis in the desert that is your life. They're beautiful, they're magnificent. You don't quite understand the emotions you're overwhelmed with but you embrace them, welcome them. You don't remotely have the strength to fight them anyway.

"Two years ago, I got into a fight with my dad. Probably the most violent fight we ever got in. And it wasn't that harsh, but me and my father, we never argued that much. He was a calm man, he was wise and brave. The bravest. And whenever we got into a fight, whoever were in the wrong, he would come the next morning, with breakfast, and walked the trip from my parent's house to my shitty appartement to see me. It's an hour long walk."

You just hum, and keep walking, watching ahead, focusing on the story and not on her.

"Anyway, it was a stupid argument, he didn't approve of Finn." You don't question the name. You don't want to. You ignore the intense feeling of jalousy that bubbles from deep inside your chest. "So we fought for hours on the phone, eventually he came over and we fought some more. Now, it calmed down fairly quick because he could never be mad at me for too long. He wasn't mad when he went home, but he came anyway the following morning. Because it was our thing."

You reach another crossroad. You wait for the light to turn red so you can join the sidewalk on the other side.

"He came over, and we ate breakfast, and we talked and laughed, and I don't know why we talked about my future. About med school. He knew I wasn't happy so he told me "Clarke, you have to allow yourself to make your own choices. I'd be proud of you, no matter how you choose to live your life." And it was the first time he told me that. I still feel his arms around me when he hugged me goodbye."

When the signal is finally okay, you resume your advancing, and turn to her when you hear her voice tremble, feel her breath hitch. You slow down. "I've never told anyone before. This is both the happiest and saddest moment of my entire life."

You stop fully in the middle of the road, and watch fearfully the tears gather up in her eyes. You croak a faint "Why?", the emotions submerging your ability to compartmentalize. A sob wrenches out of her throat, and the tears fall.

"That was the last time I saw my father. He never made it back home." Her chin is fully trembling and she resists the urge to break down completely.

"Clarke.." And, would it be any other moment, any other context, you would have reveled at the sound of her name on your tongue, at the sweet taste of it, how it seemed to be a prayer of love. But it's not any other moment. It's this one, and you can't compartmentalize. You can't help but relate, you can't help but feel her pain. It matches your own. It matches so perfectly.

You engulf her in your arms, because you can't let her see your tears. You can't let her see your pain. You can't be selfish right now. So you hold her, and she lets go. You're barely aware of the horns of cars that passes you by, barely aware that you're still on the middle of the crosswalk. Nothing exists but her words. She breaks, and you feel like it was long overdue. You're here to catch her, and you wish she would catch you too. You can only repeat "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry", broken and sincere. You're grateful for the slow traffic, because no more cars are passing you by.

Still, you feel like pushing your luck, and you're entirely too uncomfortable being here, so, without ever letting go of her, you angle your body sideways, and lead her on the sidewalk. You lead her to safety, even though you know that not to be true.

When you're here though, you resume your previous actions, and continue to hold her with all that you are. You're not ready to let go yet, and she isn't either.

Really, you should think your situation to be extremely weird. Crying in a stranger's arms, over old wounds that feel more fresh than the tears that are escaping you. You hold her for a long time, and in the assurance of your body, she doesn't feel like a strangers anymore. Undoubtedly, confessing to unyielding grief in the middle of the night, walking around the city, is bound to create special connections. Special memories. You know you'll keep this one forever.

After what feels like hours, maybe days, maybe years, the crying subsides. You don't move right away, the acquaintance of a warm body pressed against yours much too welcomed. Specifically, a body that feels right. One against which you think you belong. One that feels natural.

When she whispers words apologies, you tell her that it's alright. It's okay. You understand. You _get_ it. Eventually, you pull back, and wipe the last of her tears out of her reddened and still perfect face. You pull a tissues out of your pocket, one for her and one for you, and you both laugh as you clean yourselves and begin to walk again. There are sniffles and awkward laughing for a few minutes. You pass random walkers, couples, people that look at you weirdly. They won't take this moment away from you though. It's yours. As painful as it is.

"I'm sorry for asking." You eventually say, because guilt is part of the package.

"Don't be. I could have told you another story. I could have chosen differently."

After only a second of hesitation you ask, "Why didn't you?"

"Maybe I needed it. Maybe I needed someone to know."

"Thank you for deeming me worthy of this knowledge."

"Don't thank me. It's a burden I had to share, it doesn't mean I want anyone to bear it."

"I'll gladly help you carry it."

"Don't you already have some of your own?"

You swallow and look away. It feels like a stab in the chest.

"Yeah, I do."

Nothing more is said. She grabs your hands, for comfort. It's overly efficient. You're glad.

You walk, and you walk. Silently, calmly. Suddenly, it hits you, that you've been walking for too long.

"Do we have a destination?" You ask only half joking.

"Yes.."

"Is it actually a real place?"

"No."

"So.. where are we going then?"

"Does it matter? The destination should be the journey."

"Oh, you're one of those." You say smiling, and you're not mocking her. Really, you're just enamoured.

"And what would we be?"

"The ones who are romantic and sappy."

She laughs, and it suits her so much more than tears.

"Says the girl who litterally begged a stranger to follow her on an adventure, on a whim."

"Says the girl who asked me to stay in the first place."

You both look at each others again, bashful smiles and tender eyes.

"I mean it, you know. I just wanted to wander the city and talk. We don't need to go somewhere. I just wanted to stay with you."

"I didn't leave you, did I?"

"No, no you didn't."

You squeeze her hand. The atmosphere shift, something changes and there's a tension that was there all along but rather forgotten. You feel the sudden need to be closer, impossibly closer. And the deep hours of the night provides you with a reason. The cold of the darkness falls upon you and she shivers.

"I should probably get you home before you catch something. You're freezing."

But she's suddenly pleading with her eyes.

"I don't want to go home. Anywhere but there. Please."

You think about for a second, thinking about all that this statement and your following decisions could entail. What will it be? What could it means? Will this mean something? Will this change the course of your life? You decide that if it does, than it's really not a bad thing.

You hail a cab, squeeze her hand once more. When it stops before her and you hold the door of the car open for her to enter, you say "I'm really taking you somewhere this time". You give the adress to the driver, and when you take off, you enjoy the view of the city. Passing lights that light up a little bit more than the streets.

She doesn't speak, doesn't question the destination. When you arrive at the hotel, you question yourself. Don't show it. Just go with it. Tongiht, you start living again. You walk in silence and she follows, when you ask for a room. There is a certain tension, when in the elevator, she looks at the floor and says nothing. When you arrive in front of the suit, you finally hear the sound of her her voice once more.

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"Can't do what?"

"Let you pay for all this. Let you pay for a hotel room, for the night.."

"Look, I have more than enough money. As for the night? Let's just say that I want to enjoy their room service menu and we can lounge in peace in the living room of the suite. I don't want to take you to mine's."

"That's twice you say that to me, now. I'm really feeling offended."

"Jesus, I'm sorry. I mean I don't want to make you uncomfortable bringing you back to my place and thinking I'm expecting anything."

"But a suite in a fancy hotel with a living room and room service is saying something else..?" She smiles at you, one of those dangerous smile that are far too attractive to be ignored.

"It was that or a motel and a vending machine. Which one do you prefer?"

"I guess the fancy hotel is fine."

You open the door and let her in. The suite is big. The window has a nice view of the skyline. You find rapidly the menu of room service, and throw yourself on the big couch against the far wall of the room, propping your feet on the small table before you. She soon take a sit next to you, while you scan the choices.

"Do you want something to drink? Wine maybe?"

"Now you're just pushing your luck."

You smile without taking your eyes off the menu.

"Is it a yes?"

"I don't think alcohol is such a good idea."

"Tell that to the four tequilas that died in your throat."

"Okay, that was kind of rude." She says laughing, because really, when she sees that you're still smiling, she can't be mad at you. "I guess wine could be fine. Red."

"Red wine, it is. Are you hungry?"

"Lexa.."

You don't want to argue, you don't want this to be a reoccuring subject. You shoot her a pointed look. Do your best to show her that you're in no state to start a discussion about this.

"Fine.. I suppose maybe, I wouldn't say no to food. But nothing too fancy."

"I'm kind of in the mood for pancakes."

"Now, we're talking. Can we have pancakes at this hour?"

"Darling, we can have whatever we want."

The term of endearment doesn't go unnoticed by either of you because you see the shy smile, gaze averting, and when you turn to make the call, you pretend like you don't hear the murmured "I wish we could."

You order enough pancakes to nourrish the whole hotel, and every topping you can think of, a bottle of the finest red wine, and chuckle at the confused response at the other end of the line, imaginning the _Red wine with pancakes?_ thoughts that are running through the chef's mind.

While you wait for the food, you talk easily with her, about everything and nothing. You talk about the best places in New York, favorites books and songs that marked your life. You talk about growing up, you talk about having siblings. While you eat, she talks about her mother, bright surgeon Abby Griffin, recently remarried. You learn about the bitterness of her mother marrying Marcus Kane, how she loves the man, the kind hearted passionnate man that is Marcus but who will never be her father. And you know that beneath it all, it's the guilt talking. The tragic guilt of feeling responsible for the death of a beloved.

You learn about Octavia, the best friend. Her brother, Bellamy, the other best friend. You discover about growing up as a trio, summer camps spent together and teenage dramas. You want to learn more.

"This wine is exquisite."

"Isn't it? I'm glad you like it."

"Thank you for all this, Lexa." When you just smile, she goes on. "So am I going to finally learn about your name?"

"You won't let it go, will you?"

"I see you're starting to know me."

You sigh, and angle your body toward hers, and she mirrors you, propping her head in hand, arm resting on the back of the couch.

"If I tell you, You have to promise not to tell a single living soul about it."

She nods eagerly, and you wonder one last time if you feel like saying it. There is only one other person in this world who is- _was_ allowed to call you that, and you haven't heard it fully since then. But since tonight is a night of change, of taking chances, of risks, you tell yourself that you might as well go with it.

"My name's Alexandria."

You don't say it lightly, it's not casual. The words are heavy in your mouth and they fall upon the both of you with a certain tension. She doesn't speak, it's unnerving. She sit up straighter, and lean in. Your heart beats fast because, for a split second, you let yourself think that she's going to kiss you. Instead, she throw her hands around your neck, like she understands, like she knows what it means that you told her this.

The hug is returned fairly quickly, you need it. Tears are gathering at the corner of your eyes, and you want to force them away but you know you won't be able to. They've been waiting. They've been hovering for six months now.

"Beautiful.." She whispers in your hair, and it's all you can do not to scream it agony. Reliving all the times you heard this name, when it was thrown your way in high school corridors, a simple greeting. When you heard in flirting, in pain, in tears, in laughter, in anger, in reprimands, in pleasure, in delight, in pain, in apologies. Whispered, shouted, licked on your skin, painted on you with such gentleness, uttered in infinite love.

"Her name was Costia."

"You don't have to-"

"I do. I share your burden. Share mine?" And she nods against your shoulder, she lets you. She never let go of you, only comes closer.

"Only her called me that. We met in high school. I was fifteen and knew nothing about life, or love. I was raised by my aunt, never knew my parents. I didn't know what loved looked like. Indra loved us, but she was a hard working woman, that gave us a strict education. She was kind but firm. I didn't have that many friends, besides Anya and Aden, I was kind of on my own. She pushed her way into my life, came in with a bang. I fell in love with her almost instantly. We became the best of friends but that phase didn't last very long." You chuckle but it doesn't sound happy. You fight against the tears still. You won't let them fall. You refuse it.

"She would always get us in trouble. I hated it. She'd go and do something stupid, and I could never leave her alone. I would have followed her through anything. I took the fall for too many times. Indra was furious with me. But she had a soft spot for Costia. Everyone did. You couldn't not love her."

"I wish I could have met her."

That makes your heart aches ten times more than before. Your throat hurts too, it's almost completely closed off and you struggle to keep talking. You have to get it out, too. Tonight is the night, you remind yourself. You don't allow the "Me too." that wants out. It'll do more damage to your already broken soul.

"I loved her so much. She was beautiful, she was sophisticated and goofy, gentle and fierce. A force to be reckoned with. It was all natural that after high school, we both attended law school. We were brilliant students. We followed the same steps. Passing the bar. Being hired in a firm. Her family was influencial. Her parents always had a lot of money and they had connections."

You don't know how it happens, when, or why. But, somehow, you shift, and move, and make yourselves comfortable, without ever breaking the hug, and that seems to mean that she has to sit on your laps, her legs resting behind your back, and you're leaning into her, her arms and body shielding you from the real world, and for moments, you close your eyes and imagine, much like earlier, being back in time.

"Really, working living together was tiring. That meant endless fights, long nights of works, where one or the other would come home late. But it was good, you know. One day we had a big case, and we were both assigned on it. Rapist and murderer. It was complicated, and we were the best. We thought we would get it. We thought we had it, we would win. We had a strong case, but I guess it wasn't enough, theirs was stronger. Really, it's a shame thinking back."

There is nothing you can do for the tears that falls now and you're grateful they're silent, they don't come in sobs. They just fall, aimlessly, cutting your cheeks with agony. If Clarke feels it against her chest, she doesn't say.

"We lost the case. And the bastard was released. It didn't do us good. We fought harder than before, we didn't understand how we could have let this monster go. We blamed ourselves and each other. We were distant. We thought about the lives we couldn't save because he was a free man, free to pick his next victim. Free to take another life."

You pause. It's hard. It's the first time you let yourself say those words out loud. It makes them real, you acknowledge them. You relieve yourself of their weight against your chest.

"He did, he did take another life. And it was the last one he ever will." She looks at you, pulls back, search your face. Leans back, lets you lean on the back of you couch, tense but ruined. Her hands take yours. Encouragement, comfort, bravery, they give you all the things you need to go on.

"I was working late. We were supposed to go out with Anya this night. I didn't go. They went to grab a drink, and I didn't go. I couldn't, I needed to work harder, to be better, to fix our mistake. So I stayed at work. And Costia went home alone, it was a short ride. She never let Anya get her home. She was too proud and self-sufficient. He was waiting for her in our building. Don't ask me how he got in, to this day it's still a mystery. He tortured her. Made her suffer for ever trying to put him in jail. For "defying him"."

The tears have stopped, you don't have the strength to cry. The words are sharp, sharp enough that you feel like there is blood pouring out of your mouth.

"I guess I have to thank my sister, somehow, that when she didn't a text that assured that Costia was safe, she went and check on her. She found her. They caught him the next day. This time, his case wasn't strong enough. I haven't been to work since."

There's something wet that crashes on your linked hands, and you know that the tears don't belong to you.

"I am still having a hard time grasping the fact that this man is still allowed to breathe, to walk the same ground as me, when she can't anymore. It should be me. I should have been the one he found. What if I had gone with her? Would I have been able to save her? Maybe we wouldn't have gone home at all. Maybe we would have had too much too drink, and Anya would have taken us all to hers, like she did many times. What if-"

She cuts you with fingers on your mouth.

"Stop. Don't. Don't do this."

"How can I deserve to live in world where she doesn't?"

And she looks at you hard, strong, desperate. When she leans in this time, you know that you don't have to hope for it. You feel undeserving of it but you can't deny it, you crave it, you crave the feeling that you're worthy again. Her lips against yours are hard, forgiving of mistakes that aren't yours or hers to fix. They're firm, ordering guilt to evaporate. It's indulgent, soothing and reassuring.

You kiss her back, grateful, thank the gods for being merciful on your condamned soul. Her hands are grabbing at your sweater, pulling you against her. You surrender. You don't want to hate yourself anymore. It's okay to live. When your lips move against hers, your learn again that you can indulge yourself, that you can forgive yourself, maybe the tears that are returning will erase forever the shame, the disgrace, the regrets. You can only pray.

The kiss is slow now, soft mouths brushing together, nose touching as head tilts, and when you go to kiss her again, your hands sliding up her back she pulls away. Gasps, but doesn't let go of your sweater, doesn't get off of you.

"I can't.. I'm sorry."

When you look at her, forehead touching, you plead her to give you a reason why.

"I'm getting married in two days."

The words slice their way through your heart. You don't move. Cry harder. You're frozen, in this state of confusion.

"Why?" Is the only thing that leaves your mouth, and really, you're asking a thousand questions. _Why didn't you tell me? Why are you here? Why did you kiss me? Why did you pull away? Why don't you love me? Why did you say yes? Why did you follow me? Why am feeling like this?_ Why, why, why?

She doesn't have any answer. There really is nothing to say. You can never call her "mine". She's not yours to touch anymore, not yours to kiss, to hold, to love.

You don't question the truth behind this night. She feels it as much as you do, the water that is staining both your clothes are a proof of it, and the ugly tragedy of it all is layed in front of you. She can't love you, she wants to, and maybe she does. But she can't.

You want to tell her that this is stupid, just call it off. _Run away with me_. To hell with it, you want to repeat. Take a chance on this, you want to say. _Don't give up on this before you even started_. But you have no right. You have no right to beg for her to quit her life. You can't ask her to throw it all away for a night of freedom.

Forehead still touching, tears still spilling, you crave for her to say that it'll be okay. You crave for warm nights, where heated lips meet heated skin, warmed by the soft light of the descending sun, lulled by the laughter in your surrounding, the neverending spiring and summer nights where everything feels more alive. You crave for things you cannot have.

She wraps her arms around you once more, burries her head in your neck, pressing I'm-sorry's to your skin, pleading you to understand, but you already do. You do. You wish you didn't.

In one fluid motion with a strength you didn't know you have, you lift her, walk to the bed, and lie both your body on it. The night doesn't have to end there. You let yourself enjoy it while you can.

You stay like this, fully clothed, lights on, that you turn off eventually with two claps of your hands, stuck behind her back. You lay there, looking at her, unsaid promises that can never be kept.

When her eyes close, you allow yourself to say, "Please, stay."

She doesn't answer, doesn't move, and you think that she's asleep. When you finally feel sleep take over, you feel lips almost pressed against yours, but not quite. They ghosts over yours, and finally, when they touch in the kindest of kisses, you surrender to the darkness.

In the soft light of the morning, you feel the bed shift, you hear words of apologies. Not said, but heard anyway. Cold replace warmth.

"Where are you going? Come back to me." You say, half aware of what is happening. You barely register the sound of sniffles, and the click of the door. In your sleep clouded mind, you feel safe to to say "Don't ever leave me." and even if she's already gone, you know that she heard it as clear as the light of the newcoming day.

When you wake up, your heart is just like the bed in which you're laying: cold and empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter two is finally up, ad it's incredibly sad but also incredibly hopeful. I intended on making this a three piece story but I settled on two. Wouldn't be opposedon continuing it though.  
> The lines on the bathroom scene are from the song "Love" by daughter, which inspired this entire fic to begin with, hence why the lyrics in the song.

Leaving her had been crushing. The hardest choice you ever made. But really, the fatality of it was that it wasn't even a choice. Because if it was, maybe you'd have chosen differently.

The denial runs deep within you, is eating at your insides, sitting at the table of the restaurant, sharing lunch with your mother, silent and tense.

“Clarke, is everything alright dear?”

“I'm fine, mom.”

Oh, how you wish it to be true. How you wished you could be fine with this fucked up situation. And you can't fool her, she's your mother. You can't pretend in front her, she reads into your eyes, she knows the fakeness of your smiles.

“That's an awful face to make when you're supposed to get married tomorrow.”

“Mom.” You warn her. Today is so not the day to talk about that. Which is highly ironic because as she reminds you, the wedding is tomorrow.

“Do you think your father would want you to go through with this?”

“Don't talk about dad. Don't talk about what he wanted.”

“You know he didn't want you to be unhappy.” Well, it was worth a try.

“Well he's not there now, is he?” And your own words make you want to vomit. You can't stand them on your tongue, but they feel necessary. Or maybe it's the hurt that comes with it, that does.“I have myself to thank for that.”

“Stop that right now.” She says, bitter and angry. Sharp.

“You started it.” A pause. “And I'm not unhappy.”

“Tell that to your face.” And she looks at you with so many feelings and you can't take it. It's too much, but you deserve it. You deserve so much worse so you accept it nonetheless.

“Your father might not be here, but don't you think you owe it to his memory to try and be happy?”

You don't answer that. You can't. A single tear escapes you and you look away, jaw set in anger. Against yourself.

“Why are you doing this Clarke?”

“Can you stop talking about this? I'm getting married tomorrow and that's that. I'd like for my mom to be supportive of my choice for once.”

And the comment is effective, hurts. Both of you, because maybe she wasn't entirely happy with you dropping out of med school and not following her path, but she never held it against you. After a minute of silence, your last words echoing painfully, she drops her eyes to her plate and talks again.

“I will be there tomorrow. I'll walk you to the aisle, I'll stand by your side. But don't expect me to stand by this when I know that it doesn't make you happy. I can't be supportive of something I do not understand.”

You don't look at her, because you do, she'll see in your eyes, the deep truth running wild beneath your skin. Please, get me out of here, Mom, she'll see. She'll hear your heart cry out in agony against the choices you make, against the punishment of your situation. What you bring upon yourself because you can't stand the idea of your father dying for _nothing_. What kind of person gets their father killed over someone they can't bring themselves to love? Not you, that's for sure. Not you, you tell yourself. You love Finn, you repeat. 

It's been ringing in your head for the last two years and you try your hardest to believe for the sake of your sanity. Because if you don't, if you don't believe it, then why is dad dead? Was it worth it to fight and argue and make this a tragedy for someone you don't want? So you make yourself want Finn. 

And you don't look at your mother, because if you do, she'll see right through you. She'll read in the blue of your eyes, and she'll know. 

Maybe, she already does. 

“You don't have to understand it, you just have to be there.”

And just like this, the conversation ends, and you don't really know if you're relieved or just sad. There's small talk, but other than that, nothing is said. There's an elephant in the room, it's known, acknowledged, but he scares both of you, and you're afraid that if you talk about it again, he's going to crush you. So you just avoid it.

When you say goodbye, you almost want to beg her to take you far away and prevent you from doing this. You want your dad to be here and scream at you that he's not right for you, that there is a girl in a hotel bed that made you feel more alive than you've ever felt and she's waiting, that your relationship with Finn started wrong anyway. Everything about this is wrong.

But you have to do it, because, your father isn't there to tell you that, because you chose Finn two years ago. You walk away from your mother and try to assert the reality of this situation. You've been trying for the last 24 months.

You go to Octavia's to get the final details ready for the big day. There's this nausea that hasn't left you since this morning. It attacks you every time you think about marrying him. Which is constantly lately. It was fine when it was just this idea of marriage, but the panic grew exponentially as you crossed the day on the calendar.

“Geez, Clarke, you look like you're gonna die.” Octavia once you get inside her appartment.

“Why thank you, O, it's always a pleasure to see you too.” But there's no sarcasm in your voice, you sound exhausted and beaten down.

“C, what is it?” And she's concerned, sits down besides you on the couch, because you had to sit down, _you had to_. And you think, can you tell her? Do you think you can tell her the truth? Is it worth lying to her, too?

“Something happened last night.” You don't recognize your voice because when you say that, your voice isn't weary or sorry. It's hopeful and happy and really, what does that say about what happened?

“Did you leave him?” And really, the fact that the first assumption she makes is this one should be enough to make you drop this whole thing. What was that saying of your relationship? Of you. Really.

“I.. I don't know how to explain. I kind of, met.. someone. I don't know, Octavia, everything feels so surreal. I don't know what is happening.”

“What do you mean you met someone? Did you cheat?”

“No!” But you're too quick, and defensive, and you don't even believe yourself, because it felt like you did. “I didn't sleep with her.”

“But?”

“I kissed her, and told her about dad, and we spend the night in a hotel room holding each other, sharing life stories.”

“Wow.. How did it feel?”

“It felt like nothing I've ever felt.”

“Does that mean the wedding's off?” You get up fast, and your head spins, and you panic.

“Of course not, O, I can't just call off the whole wedding! I.. I love Finn. I can't just leave him. Not now.” Not if it means it was all for nothing. You want to tell her that you want to but you're not that strong. Once again you want to ask for help but you're not sure you deserve it, you're not sure you deserve to be saved from this.

Maybe that's why you ran from the hotel this morning. Maybe that's why you didn't allow yourself anything more than a fleeting moment of happiness.

“So if I understand correctly, you came to tell me that you're going to get married and stay in a relationship that makes you miserable, even though you litterally met someone who might be worth it?”

“I can't just throw everything out the window over a fling.” Yes, yes you can. But you won't.

“You just told me yourself that you've never felt anything like this before. Those are your words Clarke, not mine. It doesn't sound like a fling. How can you still think it's still the right decision to marry him?!”

“Octavia, please understand.”

“But I don't! Nobody does, Clarke, not even you. Do you even know why you are doing this?”

And yes, you do. But you don't.

You can't look into her eyes, and she gets up, stands before you, but you can't face her.

“You're so deep in denial, you don't even realize what you sound like.”

“Oh, that's rich coming from you.” You have enough of people calling you out. Especially when they are right. Especially when they hit right where it hurts, right where you feel it the most. “You're one to talk about denial.”

It's a low blow. It's not even a low blow, it's down right hurtful and offensive, and you know you absolutely shouldn't have said that.

“Don't fucking go there, this is not about me.”

“So it's okay for you to judge me, but I can't?”

“We are not talking about this.”

“We are now. We are, because I will not stand here taking your shit if you're not willing to take mine.” And the warning look she throws, the way her jaw clenches, do nothing to prevent you from continuing. Turning tables on her is your strategy, and you're sticking to it, desperate for an escape. “You have some nerve calling me out, when you practically invented the word denial.”

“Clarke.” She warns again.

“Do you even realize you're hurting her? After everything she went through.”

“Stop this, right now.”

“Lincoln is not coming back, Octavia, open your eyes!”

And the hand against you cheek, really, is not even a surprise. You saw it coming, you asked for it. You gladly accept it. You wish it would hurt more than this.

“My husband is in a coma, and you have the audacity to come here on the eve of your fucking wedding, beg me to help you, just to put accusations on me?”

“She loves you, Octavia. She does.” And you're crying now, not even sure you're talking about Raven anymore. Are you talking about Lexa? Talking about you? Who the fuck knows at this point. Definitly not you.

“And you think I don't? You think I want to see Raven hurting? You think I don't feel guilty enough, that I am loving on someone other than my dying husband!”

“He's not coming back, O.. He'd want you to let him go.”

“I'm trying!”And there is tears in her eyes, but she won't let them fall, you know her better. She's not weak like you are.

“I know. I'm sorry.” Really, bringing it up was wrong, it was stupid, and low. “I'm sorry.”

“Why did you come here if you don't want my advice?”

“But I do want it.Just not this one.”

“If it's not what you want to hear, then maybe you ough to ask yourself if you're seeking advice or validation for your mistakes.”

You don't answer, and she is right. You're not here for advice. You're here for someone to tell you that you're making the right choice, to convince you that you can go through with this. Really, you're the one who needs convincing.

“I better get everything ready for tomorrow.”

She sighs, still angry, still upset, but she's your best friend, and she knows you. She reads between the lines.

“Let me change and I'll come with you.” You don't have the strength to deny.

The rest of the day is spent in last details, preparations. You go through the motion, dreading the hours that pass and that gets you closer to tomorrow. This night, when you lay in Octavia's bed because of some stupid tradition you have to uphold, you feel like you can breathe again but like you will suffocate at any given moment. You don't sleep at all. At some point, you snuggle closer to her, and she holds you. She, too, can't find sleep.

Much too soon, it's mid-day, you're in a white dress that doesn't suit you, people tug at your hair, you're driven to the church, your hands sweating, heart thumping for all the wrong reasons. This is your wedding day, you shouldn't be feeling like this.

Your mother's here, in one of the back room, she holds your hand and no words is said. In an hour, you'll be bound to Finn in holy matrimony. You feel like crying again. You turn to your mother then and you snap, when you see the look on her face, infinite sorrow and understanding. But pleading all the same, pleading you not to do this, and you're pleading too.

You open your mouth to tell her, you'll do it. You have the sentence in your head, you've prepared it in your head for two days, but didn't feel like you had the right to say it. But you tell yourself, _to hell with it_. So, in your mind, you repeat it one more time before saying: _I can't do this mom, please, help me breathe again._

There's a knock on the door, and you don't even look up. You face away, so your mother doesn't see the utter pain in your eyes, your chance is gone. Your small chance at hope has gone out the window.

“Finn, you're not suppos-”

“I need to speak to Clarke. Alone. Please?”

And, his voice is soothing, you try to remember all the reasons you were in love with him once. He's a nice guy. He grown up to be such a fine man. You feel for him. When your mother exit without another word, you fear for the next words to leave his mouth.

“What is it? You know you shouldn't see me.” Composure, it's important that it seems to be there.

“I doesn't matter much, now.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, fearful.

“I cheated on you.”

You turn to him at this. You're shocked for a few seconds.

“What..?”

“You heard me. I had someone else. I'm sorry.”

You don't know what to say. You see a tear escape him, and what does it mean?

“I don't understand..”

“There's really nothing to understand. I betrayed you, I made a mistake.”

“Are you asking for forgiveness? Now?”

“No, I'm not. I'm here to say, I cheated. I accept whatever the consequences. If you want to call off the wedding, call it off.”

“Finn, it's a twenty thousands dollars wedding, that is happening in less than an hour!”

“It's okay, I'm in the wrong, I can pay back your mother for the wedding with what is left of my father's money.”

“Oh my-I need to sit down.” But you stand still. You can't move, you just stare at his sad eyes, his posture definitive, if slightly slumped. And you understand. You see it, the lie. He's lying. But why? You don't understand any of this, someone explain this. Please, you beg to whoever will listen.

He doesn't argue more, in fact he was never arguing in the first place. Hands in his pocket, jaw tense, tears still spilling, he approaches you, and kisses your forehead.

“I'll go notice the guests that they can go home.”

And you can't answer, you can't grasp what is happening here. You don't even try to talk him out of it. You won't even fight. Why fight when this is all you ever wanted? To be free of this burden. You hate yourself for thinking of him as a burden and maybe, maybe if he's doing this, you are the burden.

When he is almost at the door, finally, you ask.

“Do you love me?”

“I do, Clarke. I just don't think it's enough this time.” And it's here. The lie. You catch it. The unspoken is loud in the silent room. You let it fall upon you, that today, you won't be marrying the most selfless man on the planet. Somehow, you feel even guiltier than before.

“I'm sorry.” Is all you can answer, and really, it doesn't even begin to be enough.

With that, he's gone. You sit on the floorboards, it creaks under your weight. You wait in the silence and try to process the brief monumental moment that occurred. Did you dream it? Was it all just a cruel prank your brain played on you?

But no, because, you don't how long after, your mother is returning,

She holds you, talks, but you don't hear. You don't move, you just sit there, knees to your chest. When she pulls you to your feet, you just let her. She gets you out of the dress, and, for a minute, you think about being self conscious about the lingerie you're wearing but really, you can't care about anything.

You're being dressed again in casual clothes while silent tears are streaming and crashing loudly on the wooden floor of the church. You won't be marrying Finn today, you tell yourself, and it's such a foreign concept in itself. You told yourself for a year, every day, that today, you would be marrying Finn. Now, now this truth has become void. Because, it's there, it's real, it's happening.

You won't be marrying Finn today.

Octavia enters the room, almost running, followed by a limpimg tuxedo clad Raven, and you notice with a throb of your heart that they match. Raven's pocket square and Octavia's dress are the same color, the same gentle red, bright and passionate and for the briefest of moment, you see yourself and Lexa.

You laugh loudly at the thought, and really it's just nothing more than a loud sob that breaks the heavy silence. Eyes are on you. All eyes are on you now. Your mother's, Raven's, Octavia's.

“I'm not marrying Finn today.” You say laughing again, because you need to voice it, you need to feel it somehow other than in your mind when it's still a vague concept you're not sure isn't made up.

You crumble at the sharp words. Your laugh turns into something like a howl. And you cry freely, two pairs of arms encircling you and Raven's eyes burning into your own. You feel free and guilty at once. Free of the punishment, free of the burden, free of this tragedy. But guilty all the same. Do you deserve to be?

“It's better this way.” You hear your mother say.

“He did the right thing,” Octavia supports. They both know too, really, everybody knows that Finn could never cheat on you. He loves you so much, he would've done right by you. And maybe that's what he did. The knowledge is like a knife through your heart.

But you don't believe it. You don't deserve to able to live a life where you don't pay the price for your mistake.

“You didn't deserve this Clarke,” Raven says, “You didn't deserve to live like this, and neither did Finn.”

It sounds harsh, and for a moment, you think she intended it this way.

“Raven.” You mother says, and Octavia turns to her, probably casting her a warning glance. She ignores both of them.

“You didn't deserve to suffer the punishment for a crime you didn't commit.”

She comes to you, craddles your face in her hand, and wipes some tears. There was always a deep understanding between the two of you. Her words soothe you. A little anyway.

“I understand why he did what he did,” she adds, softly.

“I do, too.”

“So you know, that it wasn't fair to him to keep this relationship going, when the both of you knew that he loved you and you didn't. You didn't love him and you didn't even love you.”

“How could I?”

“You're not responsible for what happened to your father, Clarke.” Your mother says, and it's the first time she acknowledges the fact. That she voices your responsibilities. You close your eyes and cry silently. Raven ignores her once again and continues.

“It wasn't fair of you to stay with someone you didn't love just to punish yourself. And it wasn't fair of him to stay in a relationship with someone he knew didn't love him back out of selfishness.”

You look at her harshly, because what he did wasn't selfish, but ultimately, you softens because you understand. He wanted to hope a little longer, to believe a little harder. That maybe, if you went through with it, you could bring yourself to love him back. He did his best, he was there for you, always. But he was right.

Sometimes it's just not enough.

You heart aches for him. You wish you could have loved him. But you don't and in this painful moment, your mind flashes back to Lexa. What could have been. What could be, you surprise yourself thinking.

“Someone needed to put you out of your misery.” And because you look at her, you see her eyes turn to Octavia's, as if somehow, those words weren't meant for you. “I admire him for having the courage to do so.” Her voice is heavy and her eyes fall to the floor and you want to hug her.

With that, she kisses your forehead, and whispers, “But it's okay that you didn't. It doesn't make you a bad person. It doesn't make you weak. You deserve happiness Clarke, you deserve better than that.”

She leaves, after that, and Octavia doesn't chase after her. She stays by your side, holds you, but you have your mother for that, so you nudge her, and wordlessly, she goes.

You're not prepared to have the heavy conversation you know you need to have with her, she reads it in your eyes that you're tired, exhausted really, and when she drives you to her house, you watch in silence the patterns that the city draws on the window, aimless and without purpose. Your mind feels empty yet it's reeling with all that happened.

You fall asleep almost instantly when you get there, and the presence of your mother is comforting.

The next night, you go to Polis, the bar where you met Lexa. You stand by the window outside, on the curb, and watch her. She's there, of course she is. She waits for you and you want to wait for her too. You stand there for hours and you never enter. When you return home, to your mother, you cry yourself to sleep once again.

You go back the next day. You stand by the window, on the curb, and watch her.

On the third day, you go to your place, the one you shared with Finn, and the process begins: the long, hurtful, painful process of packing your stuff, dividing, deciding who keeps what. It's mostly silent, you realize that you didn't buy that many things in common, and the process is more simple than you thought. It doens't take away the pain.

At night, you return to Polis, stand by the window on the curb, and watch her. She has a whiskey, she doesn't drink it.

It takes two more days to finish packing and moving your stuff from the apartment. At the end of it, you want to say you're sorry, you want to thank him for lying, for taking the blame, for making this ten times more easy. You don't say any of these things, because there's a lump in your throat and it keeps the words in. You just hug him before you go. You cry a little on his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, “Take care of yourself, Clarke,” he tells you, and you can just nod and smile, turn and go.

Both nights you go back to the bar. Stand, and watch. She's here everynight. Your body aches to go inside and talk. You don't.

After that, you spend a lot of time at your father's grave. You sit beside his headstone, and talk, and say all the things you wish you could have said. To him, to Finn, to Lexa. To your mother. You draw, you write, you try to be yourself again. It doesn't come easy.

You talk about how you wish he could see the look on Lexa's face when she looked at you in that hotel room. You wish you could tell him that there's someone out there to mend your crooked heart. That she's there, she's waiting, and you don't know for how long. You want to tell him of the great gaping hole in your life, the one he left behind. You don't blame him, you want him to know. If anything, you blame yourself, and maybe a little bit too much.

But Raven's words are still fresh in your memory, your mom's too. You laugh and tell him that yes, dad, you'll talk to her. That you know she's trying her best, and she's hurting all the same. The heavy burden can be shared after all. You ask him to take care of Lincoln once he gets there, because he will, soon. Another tragedy, another heartache.

Still, everynight, you stand in front of that stupid window, on that stupid curb, willing your stupid mind to go in. Willing your body to move past your fears.

On the tenth day, it's raining, dark, you're cold but unmoving. You stand there and watch her sit on the same stool, with the same drink that rests untouched on the counter.

“Are you going to get in someday?”

“Maybe someday, or something like that.”

You turn to see Octavia coming to you, and you fear because it's unsual that she would meet you here. Normally she'd call, and you haven't missed a call, you know, because your phone is resting against your hand in the pocket of your jacket. There's a look on her face, it ressembles sorrow and determination.

All too soon, you know.

“Octavia.. What is it?”

The mask crumbles, if only slightly, to let through a tear, a gentle quiver of her lip.

“We're unplugging him, tomorrow,” She inhale deeply, as if there's unseen courage in the air, like she's going to find it there to keep going. “I signed the papers today,”

And her voice cracks at the end of the sentence, it's getting more difficult to talk, to pretend.

She doesn't give you the time to answer, to say that you're sorry, to say that nothing's going to be okay but that you'll be here forever.

“You were right Clarke, he'd want me to let him go,”She stops pretending completely then and breaks. It's utterly heartbreaking and you go to hold her as she falls to her knees. She's always so strong that it's unstelling to see her like this but she's humble in her pain, even all broken in your arms. You have so much respect and love for her, you want to take her pain away. “He'd want me to be happy, and I can't do that if I'm still hanging onto him, onto false hopes and broken promises. I can't do it anymore Clarke, I don't want to, but I have to. He has to forgive me, Clarke, he has to.”

You cry with her, if only to show support.

“There's nothing you need forgiveness for, O. Lincoln has been gone for a long time now. You didn't do anything wrong.”

She doesn't listen, though.

“Please, say he'll forgive me.” She whispers, all broken and silent. You understand her pain a little too clearly.

“He does, he forgives you.” You rock her tears away, the rain pouring and drenching your clothes, washing away your mistakes and crimes, cleansing your guilt and self-loathing. “You're forgiven,”

You guess you won't be going in that stupid bar tonight.

The following day, you hold Octavia's hand as they take the little bit of Lincoln's life there is to take away. She doesn't crumble like the day before. She just puts a hand on his chest, feel him take his last breaths, feel the last of his heart beating under her hand, and whispers in his ear how much she loves him, how she wishes he'll finally be at peace, and she's sorry for waiting so long. She tells him he can go now, she's here, they can let go together.

And so they do, and the line goes flat on the screen, it sounds out of tune and wrong, but Octavia never crumbles. There's only a single drop that stains his hospital gown, and all too soon, to noise stops and there's papers to fill, procedures to follow, things to do. Before they take his body, you lean into his ear and whisper “Dad's waiting for you, Link, don't get in too much troubles you two.. I'll miss you.”

You don't go to the bar for the first time in ten nights, this night, and hold Octavia until she falls asleep, Raven watching as she holds the hand of the girl she loves.

The funeral happens on the fifteenth day, and maybe, saying goodbye once again is what compels you to finally go inside. You watched Octavia hold Raven's hand all through it, and it gave you hope, so tonight, you think, tonight is the night.

Tonight, the window doesn't watch you stand, the curb doesn't hold your weight. Tonight, you cross the threshold of the bar and with long and confident strides, like you're determined to make this happen, with all the tiredness of having to watch the ones you love go, you sit beside her. You don't look at her but you see her raise her head, and watch, for long disbelieving minutes. Long, excruating, silent minutes.

When her eyes return to her drink, and you order a shot of tequila, you realize that you didn't see this through. You panic a little but hide it well. Or at least, you try.

“Aren't you going to ask me if I had a rough night?” You ask her, unsure, and somewhat wanting to relive that fateful night.

“That's your line.” It's gentle but sad. You cringe internally, the sadness is your making once again. You will yourself to right your wrongs, because you can this time. This is your chance. You take it, you take it this time, and you're not letting go of it.

“I guess it is.” A beat pass, then, “What are you doing here? Why do you come everynight?”

She looks surprised that you know that, but once again, she doesn't question it.

“To find hope.”

“Hope to forget, I suppose,” You say with a tingle of bitterness, because, what did you expect?

“Hope to remember.”

“Me?”

“Probably.” You smile at that. Maybe there's really hope at the bottom of your shot of tequila, so you down it quickly, order another.

You want to turn to her and tell her that you're not married, that you two are free to love each others, that you're free to heal, to mend, to live, simply. You don't know how. You don't know if you even can. If you should.

How? How can you say it? Does she wants to hear it? Will it be enough? You're here, isn't it obvious enough?

To don't know how to answer any of there questions so you don't say anything. Anything at all.

“Do you love him?” It takes you by surprise. It knocks the air out of your lungs. You finally look at her, fully, you turn to her. Her beauty reaches beyond words, it fills you with a weird sense of belonging.

“I think I did once,” You're honest, you don't know why you shouldn't be.

“Did?” Her tone is threatening, shifting. It was soft just a minute ago. It's not full of sorrow anymore but rather, disbelief. “You don't love him?”

“Lexa..”

“So you mean to tell me, that you left me to marry a man you don't love?”

And it strikes you that this is why you should have said first that you weren't married.

“So I guess that night really didn't mean anything to you.” She says, anger dripping.

You don't know how to voice the words, to say that she's wrong. You don't know how to handle it, so you get up and run to the bathroom, you need air, you need to think, you need to know how to do this. You go to the sink, splash cold water on you face, and when you look in the mirror, she's here again. By the door.

“Does he make you heart beat faster than I could?” She asks low, taking deliberate steps towards you. You hold her stare through the mirror. “Does he give you what you hoped for?”

She's directly behind you, eyes still piercing through your own.

“In these nights of loveless love, I hope it makes you feel good,” She pauses and breathes down your neck, her voice drops to a whisper against your ear, “knowing how much I adore you,”

You turn, raising your hand to make her stop, ready to ask her how she dares, why. But she's quick to catch your wrist, she holds it, gently. When you raises your other hand she catches it too. What she does next ruins you.

Because instead of holding them tightly, of restraining you, she eases them on her face, right where you wanted to hit her. She guides your hands right on her cheeks, leans into the touch, eyes still angry and betrayed. Like you somehow think that she wasn't worth your love. That you'd rather marry someone you don't love, than being loved by her. And, for a second, it could have happened, but it wouldn't have been a choice you would have made with you heart.

There's tension and rage boiling between you, but the gesture snaps something in you and with your hands now, you grab her face and pull her into you, forceful, passionate, desperate.

The kiss is bitter, and resentful, and you let out all the things you think unfair. However furious the kiss is, it warms your heart, maybe because it's burning, and heated, but also because you were dying for days to feel her again and here she is. You'd endure her anger if it meant you'd get to feel again.

You kiss all tongue and teeth, it's fast exploration, sharp gasps, hard moans. She grips your hips and pull you to her, backs both your bodies in a stall and has the conscience of locking the door with a control you don't possess. She kisses down you neck, press you against the wall.

You don't know how to explain to her that she is the only one you want. So you show her instead, you show her how much you need her, constantly, how much you crave her. In your current lust clouded mind, it means unfastening your belt, opening your jeans and guiding her hand into them, directly where you need her to see what she's done to you in only a few kisses and sharp bites to your neck.

She moans into your neck when she feels the pool of desire between your legs, you moan into her ear when you feel her fingers on you for the first time. What was angry minutes ago becomes soft, for a moment only, where she holds you against the cold tiles while stroking gently the delicate flesh. Soon, though, it's like she remembers she's supposed to be mad, plants her teeth in the flesh of your shoulder at the same time as her fingers enter you for the first time.

Your mouth falls in a silent scream, and you can't help but wish that the first time she touches inside your body would be under different circumstances. But you'll take what you can have, and you can't help the hope that maybe you can explore this again when you're basked in forgiveness and love.

Right now, though, she wastes no time in aggresively thrusting into you, and really, you love it. It feels like a punishment and a blessing at the same time. You whisper words of desires and sweet nothings in her ear while she whispers how much she had wanted this, how she loves to be inside of you. It's a clear contrast to the hardness of her thrusts but once again, it feels appropriate and you just revel in the sensory overload.

“Please, please, please,” you moan, when the tension becomes too much and you want to show her with your eyes how much you love her, you want to show her when you come around her fingers.

You grab her face in the same fashion you did instants before, and make her look at you. It's all it takes, besides a curl of her fingers to make you tumble over the edge and you force your eyes to stay open. She watches, transfixed, the look on your features.

The atmosphere seems to have shifted once more when she leans in, holding you through the aftershocks of your lingering orgasm, and kisses you so softly, nudging her nose against yours, soothing the ache in your heart.

She pulls out of you, and you wish she wouldn't ever, seems to realize what's been done with horror and guilt. Before you know it, she opens the bathroom stall and she's gone.

You're frozen for only a second, and are quick to fix your clothing, following after her. You catch up just outside the bar, in front of the very window that housed many of your conflicted nights. You cry after her, desperate to make her stay.

“Lexa, please don't go!”

“You have some nerve to ask me that,” she replies turning to you.

“Oh, because fucking me against a bathroom wall and leaving me there is perfectly acceptable?” That's not what you wanted to say, at all. You want to make things better, not worse, but the wrong words keep falling from your mouth. Tell her, you tell yourself, tell her you didn't marry Finn. You wonder how she could have missed your ringless finger when she had your hands pressed so hard on her face.

“You asked for it.”

“I was vulnerable!” You raise your voice.

“Don't you dare stand there and blame me, calling me out, when you're the one who got me to open up and bare my soul, just to fuck off afterwards! Don't pretend like you're the victim when it's you who made me fall in love with you!”

And it's low, she knows that, because she looks remorseful to have said that, to blame you. She shouldn't have, but she did, and somehow, all the information you seem to remember is that she said she was in love with you. You feel like you've been punched, in a good way. But she looks mildly guilty, and turns once again to go.

You say softly, though you know she hears you “I didn't marry Finn, Lexa. I couln't do it.”

She doesn't turn around but doesn't move forward either. She stands there, her back to you, breathing uneven and scarce.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“And you're telling me this now?” She finally turns to look at you, slow, focused, like she's trying really hard to stay calm. You don't blame her. You should have told her. You shouldn't have waited this long. You shouldn't have let her fuck you without the knowledge that she had the right to do so.

“I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know if I should. I needed to know you loved me too.”

“What kind of a fucked-up response is that?” She says, advancing towards you.

“I don't know, okay? Yes, I'm a fuck-up, I'm a mess like that! But you get me, you understand me.”

“I can't believe you.”

“Please don't leave me,” You plead, weak. Cracking up.

“I almost married him, yes, I did. He broke it off too, before I even could. But I was going too. Is that what I have to say to get you to stay?” She looks at you, conflicted. “I couldn't marry him for the wrong reasons, I couldn't marry him because marrying him was a punishment. I chose Finn two years ago against my father's advice because I wanted something that was mine, I was oppressed with Med School, and I chose Finn, and then dad died because of it. So I couldn't just break it off. Or dad would have been dead for nothing! I had to make it worth it! You get it, I couldn't bear the guilt, Lexa, I just, I had to marry him.”

“Stop it,” she says, stepping into you, pressing your forehead to yours. “The blame isn't yours to bear.”

“I'm sorry I left you behind, I'm sorry”

“Don't be,”

You pull back and look at her, she looks broken that she ever doubted you, she looks pained to have worsened your guilt. She looks sorry, too. You smile at how much of a mess you two are. Her hands rest on your face. She erases your tears with her skin.

“I shouldn't have blamed you, either.” She adds, low.

“You didn't know, I should have told you sooner,”

The look you share next is understanding and forgiving. You both did and said things.

“I'm sorry I fucked you in that bathroom,” She has a small smile at the corner of her lips, you want to kiss it away.

“Don't be sorry for _that_.” 

That makes both of you laugh, and after that, she seems to think again. She takes a step back, and you panic. 

“Let me be the brave one this time,” At the question in her frown, you go on, “go on a date with me,” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Let me fight for you, let me prove that I can be the one who fights for us.” 

“Clarke, you don't have-” 

“To hell with it. Let's do this differently,” you continue, interrupting her, stepping into her once again. You want to show her that you won't leave again this time. You want her to know that this chance is yours and yours alone. 

“We don't know where we're going, but we know with who we want to be,” you say hovering over her. She looks reverent looking at you but you sense the hesitation. The same that almost prevented you from following her a couple of weeks back. 

“Take a chance on us, take a chance on me,” In an impulse for crazy gestures, you kneel on the welcoming curb that has become your friend over the weeks. You feel it embrace your knee like it has been waiting for you. 

“Let's do this slowly, we can be happy.” 

“Can we?” 

“Just trust me?” 

She smiles and offers her hand then, and when you get back to your feet, you kiss her, and it's nothing angry nor reproachful, it's promising and reverent. It makes your heart beat with something happy and a small victory. You won the girl of your dreams, today, maybe. 

The road is long towards recovery, and both your broken heart feel a little less lonely, and a little more alive. You smile against her lips, you smile against her soul, and the night looks beautiful when it witnesses the young blossoming love inside your chests. 

It doesn't look nearly as beautiful as her, all green eyes, yellow skin glowing under the dim light of the bar where she stole your heart two weeks ago. 

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me @ ifwearestrangers on Tumblr if you have any question or comment.


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